


This Mess We're In

by shiplocks_of_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Armchair sex, Awkward Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Johncroft, M/M, Not a Happy Story, Post-Reichenbach, Unrequited Love, but in a way also johnlock, fair warning there is no redemption, two broken men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 22:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15204569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplocks_of_love/pseuds/shiplocks_of_love
Summary: Mycroft understands what it is to repress feelings to create a layer of protection. He understands why John and Sherlock never did quite take that extra step, each one with their own demons to fight instead.He also understands suddenly that John is about to throw his demons out of the window.





	This Mess We're In

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Reichenbach accidental johncroft. Or the story of how John and Mycroft get into a mess.  
> The title is from PJ Harvey's song featuring Thom Yorke.

John’s thumb runs up and down along the side of the tumbler, caressing the smooth, cool surface. The glass has been freshly refilled from the expensive looking bottle standing on the side table. He is sitting in his armchair in 221B; the late July evening sends waves of heat through the windows.

He stares at the man sitting in front of him, in Sherlock’s chair. A Holmes. The _wrong_ Holmes.

Mycroft is acutely aware of him being ‘the wrong Holmes’. He is also holding a tumbler, with two fingers of the Macallan 21-year-old Fine Oak he brought to Baker Street just short of an hour ago. Not his usual fare, but decent enough for his taste. More importantly, he wanted to bring something John would appreciate, something nice. John deserves it.

It had been a risky decision. It’s been a month. Sherlock is currently underground somewhere in central Europe, his exact location unknown even to his older brother. Sherlock left England swiftly and quietly after faking his death exactly thirty days ago, a jump from the roof of Barts and into the unknown. They did not meet after that – Mycroft put the Lazarus plan in action and let the events roll.

None of the Holmes brothers could have predicted how thoroughly John would crumble. And if Sherlock might have caught a glimpse of John’s despair when his friend fought through the crowd to grab his wrist, frantically searching for a life sign in disbelief, it is Mycroft who now witnesses the full bale of John’s breakdown. And it is Mycroft who is left to pick up the pieces.

In front of him sits a shadow of a man. John’s shoulders are slumped as if they have given up their fight with gravity; the dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes tell tales of insomniac nights and unspeakable grief; the fight and the glow vanished from his gaze, hollowness all that remains. Mycroft forces himself to take all of this in, to bear the responsibility for his actions, for the whole chain of events that landed them where they are today.

So now, the two men drink – one to forget the gore on the pavement, the other to drown his guilt.

As Mycroft watches John gulp down his second glass of scotch, he idly thinks that a cheap bottle of Glenfiddich would have sufficed for the evening’s purpose.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?”

Another man would have jolted at John’s sudden interjection, but Mycroft Holmes is well versed in keeping his cool. The last time the two men had seen each other was at Sherlock’s funeral; the time before that had been at the Diogenes, when Mycroft had realised that he could not fully protect Sherlock from Moriarty’s machinations, and faced an outraged John Watson as he was accused of betraying his little brother. It is only natural that Mycroft is the last person John expects – and wants – to see now.

“I was concerned about you, John. I thought it good if you did not spend tonight in isolation.” Mycroft tries to be warm without mollycoddling, keeping honest about his main objective for his visit. It was not hard, surprisingly enough. He did feel… _fondness_ about his brother’s best friend, ever since he arranged a short sequestration to meet the man that had just moved in 221B and find out about his intentions toward Sherlock. Mycroft failed to intimidate John then, which gathered his immediate appreciation for the doctor-soldier.

He is quite sure the feeling is not returned. Especially after the derisive, half-drunk snort he gets now as a reply.

“Right. Concerned. You,” John jabs a finger in Mycroft’s general direction, “concerned. About me.”

Mycroft will let John’s daggers bury in his chest if that will placate him. He raises the glass to his lips and sips delicately, flicking his gaze quickly to John’s hard glare and down again to his own lap.

“John. I am aware of your antipathy towards my person. Ah-ah, let me finish, please,” he raises a halting hand in the face of John’s obvious imminent protest, “I do not wish to convince you to change your feelings for me.”

As he speaks these words, something clenches inside Mycroft’s chest. Now, this _does_ surprise him. He understands why Sherlock sacrificed himself for this man, but he’s been carefully avoiding examining the deeper reasons. He understands them all too well. They have led him here tonight. And after all that has happened, Mycroft opens that door inside him a little bit and leaves it ajar. Oh, he will most certainly regret it – caring is not an advantage, and if Sherlock is not a good evidence for this reasoning! However, Mycroft will begrudgingly acknowledge that his life lacks some… _something_.

Sherlock is gone, perhaps to never return. John believes him dead. John never went through with his (obvious) intentions towards Mycroft’s younger brother.

Would it be so wrong?

Mycroft slowly raises his gaze to John, and their eyes lock. They stare at each other in silence, the unrelenting summer heat turning the moment further oppressive and uncomfortable. Mycroft feels droplets of sweat bead on the nape of his neck and trickle down his spine. He shivers, and he does not know if the shiver is caused by the sweat or by John’s intense stare.

He hates not knowing.

Something shifts in John’s expression then. Mycroft realises – too late – that he must have let his internal musings show on his face, provoking a change in John’s reaction to his presence. But for the life of him, Mycroft can not read what John is thinking, feeling. Pity? Empathy? Does he remember that he is sitting in front of Sherlock’s brother and therefore that he isn’t the only one having lost a loved one?

Mycroft feels a sudden pang of guilt wash over him again. Sherlock is alive, and Mycroft knows it would take one word to dissipate John’s bereavement, to give him back hope and light and joy, to smoothen out the frown lines and downturned lips on John’s face.

But he can’t. Not now, maybe not ever. The cost might be John’s own life, and Sherlock would never forgive Mycroft if something happened to John.

Mycroft would never forgive himself, it dawns on him.

John slides a soft gaze over Mycroft’s torso and arms, clad with a light white shirt with rolled-up sleeves – the heat is too much even for Mycroft, who had disposed of his suit jacket and vest the moment he had stepped into 221B. The harshness is gone from John’s demeanour and both men relax minutely into their respective chairs.

John’s thumb slides up and down the side of the empty tumbler. Up and down. A drop of condensation runs slowly along the glass.

Mycroft swallows once, twice. For a man who wears his emotions on his face, John is now unreadable, which disconcerts Mycroft. He’s never felt this off-kilter in John’s presence – in anyone’s presence, really.

He still does not know what is going to happen when he watches John slowly rise himself from his chair and step towards him. Mycroft tenses but does not move when John leans down, puts his hands on the arms of Mycroft’s – Sherlock’s – chair, and whispers mere inches away from Mycroft’s face:

“You know nothing about my feelings, Mycroft Holmes.”

He is wrong, Mycroft idly thinks. Mycroft does know a thing or two about John’s feelings because they have been so very obvious from day one. Despite John’s constant refutation of any romantic liaison between himself and Sherlock, it has always been crystal clear that the bond between them is stronger than any transitory entanglements John pursued with unmemorable women to broadcast his unimpeachable heterosexuality. Mycroft might be The Iceman, but he understands the nature of love, passion, affection, attachment, and he saw all of this in the relationship between the two men even if neither of them put it all in words.

Mycroft understands what it is to repress feelings to create a layer of protection. He understands why John and Sherlock never did quite take that extra step, each one with their own demons to fight instead.

He also understands suddenly that John is about to throw his demons out of the window.

Mycroft raises his chin just so, hoping against hope the gesture is not seen as a sign of defiance.

He can give this to John. He wants to give this to John. Oh god, he _wants_. He sends a mental apology to his little brother.

John clutches abruptly the front of Mycroft’s shirt with his left hand and pulls him forward until their lips meet. The kiss is not tender – John is desperate, and Mycroft hasn’t done this in oh so many years. He remembers to breathe, and in doing so he parts his lips slightly. John interprets this as permission to invade his mouth with his tongue, warm and heavy and frantic.

Mycroft feels the moment escape his control. He fumbles to set his glass on his side table, then raises his hands to gently hold John’s arms. He should stop this. He needs to push John away.

He pulls John onto his lap.

John goes without resistance, straddling Mycroft and releasing his shirt. He slides his right hand to hold Mycroft by the nape of his neck. His left hand rests on Mycroft’s chest. The movement is unexpectedly tender and melts something inside Mycroft. He sighs as John slows down their kiss, hands sliding to envelope him and bring him closer.

John slides his left hand down Mycroft’s chest. There’s the quiet whisper of calluses on the fine fabric, barely audible above their heavy combined breathing. Mycroft enjoys this warm caress. He then realises that John isn’t stopping.

John’s hand finds the edge of the waist band of Mycroft’s wool-silk trousers. One of Mycroft’s favourite attires for warm summers, although a bit prone to creasing.

Mycroft forgets about the creases he’s getting now when John breaks their kiss, slides his lips along his jaw and pops the button on his fly. Deft fingers probe his zipper. Warm lips probe his neck. The rustle of five-o’clock-shadows burns Mycroft’s skin; the heat of the moment burns him inside.

Mycroft closes his eyes and tilts his head back. His necktie feels suddenly too tight. As if John can read his mind, the hand holding the nape of his neck moves to relieve the knot and remove the garment altogether. The tie hangs loose around Mycroft’s shoulders.

The metallic whirr of a zipper being slowly opened cuts the air and distracts Mycroft to the point of not feeling John’s right hand opening the two top buttons on his shirt. John slides his hand up again to Mycroft’s neck, holding him gently.

Mycroft feels humid heat being breathed onto his neck, the hint of a tongue probing his skin. His own hands, uncertain on John’s shoulder blades, move up to cradle John’s head.

He feels John reaching in his pants. Mycroft is embarrassingly hard, and when John holds him in his hand, he feels teeth graze his neck.

He’s lost. He knows he is lost. His chest heaves, harsh pants in rhythm with John’s firm strokes, a possessive hot hand on his neck. A lick and a nip below his ear. Mycroft weaves his fingers through John’s short hair, trying to find an anchor to reality, but his arousal coats him in a haze. He feels himself stiffening further in John’s skilful hand, which slides up twisting just so and down again with a tight grip, faster and faster, until Mycroft senses his climax uncurl from his groin. His hips jerk under John’s solid weight and he comes, whispering John’s name in desperation, splattering John’s fingers and his own shirt with thick pulses of semen.

Mycroft’s brain starts coming back online, taking in the scene: John draped over him, his head buried in Mycroft’s neck, a trembling hand that held him through his orgasm. He disentangles his hands from John’s hair and holds his wrists, gently pushing John to a more upright position on his lap, releasing his grasp on Mycroft’s body.

They lock eyes. John’s are filled with unshed tears. Mycroft forgets about the mess between them, the physical and the metaphorical one, and leans in and kisses him softly. It is just a tender brush of lips, the spicy aroma of the expensive whisky still lingering in their breaths, but it is enough to make John relax minutely and allow Mycroft to guide them slowly to stand.

John closes his eyes, allowing a tear and a sob to escape. Mycroft is still holding his wrists, grounding and solid, and curses himself internally for allowing John to do this to himself.

He takes a decision.

He pushes John gently backwards, making him sit down on his own armchair. John opens his eyes and what Mycroft sees there pushes him further into going through with his decision.

He kneels between John’s legs and makes quick work of John’s fly, wrestling his jeans open. John looks stuck between a need to protest and a wave of arousal, but keeps quiet, his heavy breathing the only visible reaction to Mycroft’s work.

Without thinking twice, Mycroft takes John in his mouth, ignoring the fact that he is half flaccid. He risks a glance upwards and sees John clasping his hands on the arms of his chair, eyes squeezed close, panting short, panicked breaths. Mycroft slides his hands up and down John’s jeans-clad thighs in a hopefully soothing way but does not let him go, sucking him slowly, sensually.

He blindly finds John’s hands and guides them to his head. The summer heat and the previous events of the evening have turned Mycroft’s usually well-groomed hair into a sweaty mess, a longer strand here and there curling up in defiance.

Mycroft feels John softly entangling his fingers in his hair, his breathing changing, the stiffness in his thighs melting away. His position is awkward. He is exposed like this, at John’s mercy.

He lets it all go, focusing instead on the slick and slide of his tongue along John, sucking hard on his way up and relaxing his jaw on his way down, down, taking as much as he can into his mouth. John tightens his grip, not enough to hurt. Mycroft lets him guide, connect. Control.

Mycroft feels suddenly ridiculous: here he is, kneeling in front of another man (no, not another man, _John_ ), sucking him off clumsily, lewd, undignified sounds leaving his throat as he works John harder in his mouth. He wraps his right hand around John, taking back some of the control, and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath and a moan. It comes back to Mycroft how to do this: firm strokes, lips on the head, a flick of the tongue. The bitter salt coats his tongue, and he feels sweat running down his neck onto his collarbones, armpits drenched with the effort, knees burning with strain.

John’s breathing turns erratic and he tugs at Mycroft’s hair in warning, but Mycroft is relentless, and with mathematical precision he predicts the exact moment John comes, taking him again fully in his mouth, both hands again gripping John’s thighs.

And if it is Sherlock’s name that leaves John’s lips while he’s unloading himself down Mycroft’s throat, then Mycroft pretends he does not hear it.

 

Avoided gazes, perfunctory wipes, a glass of water, abandoned whisky tumblers, a hasty departure.

 

\---

They don’t speak again after that night.

Mycroft keeps a weather eye on John for two years. He lies to himself, over and over again, that he does this for his brother. He turns a blind eye to the ex-assassin working as a nurse that captures John attention. It is better like this: everybody needs a new start from time to time, a way to reset emotions and lives. To move on.

Then Sherlock returns.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm... sorry?


End file.
